Yesterday as Amelia was running from one end of the living room to the other in hasty pursuit of her stuffed dog, I saw something new in her; something I hadn't allowed myself to see before. My "baby" was no longer a baby at all, but a full-fledged, bona fide little girl.
When I think back to this time a year ago, I remember a quiet infant who couldn't sit up or feed herself. I remember my tidy house and 2 naps a day worth of free time. Now, at 16 months, she is independent and alive; she's found her voice and she knows how to use it. One of Amelia's new found joys is to remove all the pots and pans from the cupboard and bang on them with a wooden spoon. She loves to dance- with or without music, and when I say to her, "Do you want Mommy to read you a story?," she brings me Little Quack or The Touch Me Book and plops herself down on my lap. She also does a stunning rendition of "Head-Shoulder-Knees and Toes," though she generally leaves out the shoulders and knees part. My household is a noisy, toy-strewn, joyous mess. At least until
The baby days are a fading memory. While I miss certain things of her infancy, Amelia-the-toddler is pretty much the best thing since diet coke in a Styrofoam cup. She is a bright and innocent life and through her, I get to see the world as new all over again.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
So Big!
Monday, April 03, 2006
Planting Season
I have a hard time keeping exciting news to myself. Dave knows this about me and thus, when we decided to "wait" for a while to tell everyone we were pregnant with our second child, he knew it wouldn't take long for me to spill the beans. Subconciously, I thought Dave was out to ruin my fun; I wanted to shout it from the rooftops immediately. Miscarriage was something that happened to other people, not to me. I was a victim of my own reproductive arrogance.
Later that night, a friend who just happened to also be pregnant, just happened to call and I can't remember how we got on the topic, but of course it came up somehow and naturally I had to tell her. By the time I reached my seventh week, I had told a handful of friends (only the ones that asked, of course), a lady at Amelia's gym, the principal of my school, my sister, my mom, my brother and someone in the checkout line of the grocery store. And then I started bleeding.
To make a short story even shorter, I am no longer pregnant. It's funny; I haven't had any trouble keeping this to myself. I haven't been able to bring myself to call even the friends with whom I had originally shared I was pregnant. Though, I did see the lady at Amelia's gym on Saturday and when she asked me how I was feeling, I had to fess up. I think I have begun to develop some perspective on the situation, and with that perspective, a bit of a paradigm shift.
I think this whole thing has made me realize that I have an unhealthy confidence in my own ability to control any situation in my life. If I want a new shirt for work, I go to Old Navy and buy one. If I want another child, well, then by golly, of course I'm going to get what I want. While this is obviously a false analogy, in the past few days I have begun to see that I have a sense of entitlement that I'm not wholly comfortable with. The relative comfort I have enjoyed for the past few years has caused me to forget that this world we live in can be a brutal, unjust place. And this rediscovered epiphany reminded me of something else I had forgotten: grace. All the beauty of my life, every joy, each moment of happiness is a product of grace. Nothing is a promise or a guarantee. Therefore every blessing is just that, a blessing; a gift- not something I deserve.
Amelia, my very independant 15 month old, in a rare moment of submission, let me sing her to sleep last night as she nuzzled on my chest. That's my grace. That's the most tangible way I can think to describe it. I have always worried a lot about losing what I have; about my plans not going the way that I want them to; about letting an unforeseen tragedy destroy my faith. But, strangely, because of this hole in my heart, I have found some new hope in this not-at-all-new-philosophy. May it take root and grow.
Later that night, a friend who just happened to also be pregnant, just happened to call and I can't remember how we got on the topic, but of course it came up somehow and naturally I had to tell her. By the time I reached my seventh week, I had told a handful of friends (only the ones that asked, of course), a lady at Amelia's gym, the principal of my school, my sister, my mom, my brother and someone in the checkout line of the grocery store. And then I started bleeding.
To make a short story even shorter, I am no longer pregnant. It's funny; I haven't had any trouble keeping this to myself. I haven't been able to bring myself to call even the friends with whom I had originally shared I was pregnant. Though, I did see the lady at Amelia's gym on Saturday and when she asked me how I was feeling, I had to fess up. I think I have begun to develop some perspective on the situation, and with that perspective, a bit of a paradigm shift.
I think this whole thing has made me realize that I have an unhealthy confidence in my own ability to control any situation in my life. If I want a new shirt for work, I go to Old Navy and buy one. If I want another child, well, then by golly, of course I'm going to get what I want. While this is obviously a false analogy, in the past few days I have begun to see that I have a sense of entitlement that I'm not wholly comfortable with. The relative comfort I have enjoyed for the past few years has caused me to forget that this world we live in can be a brutal, unjust place. And this rediscovered epiphany reminded me of something else I had forgotten: grace. All the beauty of my life, every joy, each moment of happiness is a product of grace. Nothing is a promise or a guarantee. Therefore every blessing is just that, a blessing; a gift- not something I deserve.
Amelia, my very independant 15 month old, in a rare moment of submission, let me sing her to sleep last night as she nuzzled on my chest. That's my grace. That's the most tangible way I can think to describe it. I have always worried a lot about losing what I have; about my plans not going the way that I want them to; about letting an unforeseen tragedy destroy my faith. But, strangely, because of this hole in my heart, I have found some new hope in this not-at-all-new-philosophy. May it take root and grow.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
The Fragrance of Suburbia
It was a glorious day. Saturday afternoon. No school for a week. On a walk with my daughter. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The air still maintained a mid-February chill, but it was tinged with a promise of warmer weather. You could smell it. Almost taste it. The aroma was pervasive throughout my short walk around our condominium complex. I liked it; it was clean and fresh, almost like perfume. It reminded me of the overwhelming fragrance of jasmine that accompanied springtime in my old neighborhood. But this definitely wasn't jasmine. Nor any other flower I had ever experienced. I chalked it up to some kind of scrub brush or lavender or other foreign plant indigenous to the hills surrounding our house.
On the walk back towards home, it dawned on me. It was Saturday in the suburbs: laundry day. What I smelled in the air that was not an exotic plant or the promise of spring. It was the aroma of laundry detergent, expelled from two hundred vents in two hundred garages, that saturated the neighborhood.
When Dave and I tell some of the older members of our congregation where we live, we often hear, "I used to hunt bobcats up in those hills" or "That whole area was all chicken farms in my day." I used to vehemently begrudge new developments and cookie-cutter houses and gated communities... until we moved here. Now, I am so thankful for our little postage stamp of property. However, I can't help but wonder what a Saturday afternoon walk in mid-February would have smelled like back then.
On the walk back towards home, it dawned on me. It was Saturday in the suburbs: laundry day. What I smelled in the air that was not an exotic plant or the promise of spring. It was the aroma of laundry detergent, expelled from two hundred vents in two hundred garages, that saturated the neighborhood.
When Dave and I tell some of the older members of our congregation where we live, we often hear, "I used to hunt bobcats up in those hills" or "That whole area was all chicken farms in my day." I used to vehemently begrudge new developments and cookie-cutter houses and gated communities... until we moved here. Now, I am so thankful for our little postage stamp of property. However, I can't help but wonder what a Saturday afternoon walk in mid-February would have smelled like back then.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Legacy
Lately, when I look at my 14 month old daughter, Amelia, I wonder what kinds of contributions, besides her red hair, that I will make to the person that she will ultimately become. And then I think about the kind of things that have been handed down to me. This always reintroduces me to a web of gloomy, unresolved feelings about my own heritage. Though I am not a superstitious person, I have often viewed my own destiny through a rather fatalistic lense. I have personally struggled with the patterns of dysfunction and weakness and addiction that I have observed in my lineage, and sometimes wonder if it's a losing battle. I have tried desperately to believe that God will be the change-agent in this equation, but it never quite settled my heart. However, I am no longer the ending place in this lineage. For Amelia's sake (and my own), I have to find crests of strength in a sea of weakness. I have to embrace the strength I find and pass it on.
About a month ago I received a letter. The contents were in response to a request I had made for any sort of anecdotal or geneological information about my paternal grandmother. Because I have no contact with my father, I feel that I have lost any connection that I had to that part of myself. Receiving the letter was like finding a missing piece of a puzzle that had been lost under the couch for years and years. Much of the information I had known in part, but Susie, my dad's half-sister, filled in the blanks and reminded me that I belong to a different legacy.
I knew my grandmother, Ura Mae, was born in a small Texas town to poor, uneducated parents. I knew that she was one of thirteen children and that she used to play paper dolls under the dining room table because it was one of the only places that she could find to be alone. I also knew that she eventually married a total of three times, the first when she was sixteen, and had three children by three different men. I have seen the haunting pictures of Margie, her first child, who died of bone cancer at the age of twelve. And I have heard stories about her second husband, Mac, who was killed by the Japanese on Wake Island during World War II. I know that she was heartbroken when her only son abandoned his wife and children and that it would've crushed her to know that after she died, her two surviving children fought for years over her estate and eventually stopped speaking altogether. Her life was one of tragedy, heartbreak and despair.
But that's only half the story. My grandmother completed her high school education through correspondence in 1955 and in 1972, received a degree in English from San Diego State University. She designed and taught a course on conservatorship at the local junior college until just before she died in 1994. For several years, she was the Sunday school superintendent of her church and also served as president of volunteer organizations around the San Diego area. She was interested in social justice and rarely turned down a worthwhile cause. She kept her 4'10 frame in tip-top shape by exercising everyday in her garage, though she did enjoy a bowl of Heavenly Hash ice cream every night before bed. She loved her grandchildren so much that when her son proved financially and emotionally irresponsible, she provided all three of them with a college education. She possessed intelligence, tenacity and unimaginable strength.
That's the whole story, or at least for now, the one that I know to tell. And it's the story that I claim for my daughter. Someday, when I tell Amelia about her spunky great-grandmother, I will share the tragedy, only as it serves to illuminate the beauty of who she became. That legacy belongs to me, and now it belongs to Amelia. What she chooses to do with it is up to her.
About a month ago I received a letter. The contents were in response to a request I had made for any sort of anecdotal or geneological information about my paternal grandmother. Because I have no contact with my father, I feel that I have lost any connection that I had to that part of myself. Receiving the letter was like finding a missing piece of a puzzle that had been lost under the couch for years and years. Much of the information I had known in part, but Susie, my dad's half-sister, filled in the blanks and reminded me that I belong to a different legacy.
I knew my grandmother, Ura Mae, was born in a small Texas town to poor, uneducated parents. I knew that she was one of thirteen children and that she used to play paper dolls under the dining room table because it was one of the only places that she could find to be alone. I also knew that she eventually married a total of three times, the first when she was sixteen, and had three children by three different men. I have seen the haunting pictures of Margie, her first child, who died of bone cancer at the age of twelve. And I have heard stories about her second husband, Mac, who was killed by the Japanese on Wake Island during World War II. I know that she was heartbroken when her only son abandoned his wife and children and that it would've crushed her to know that after she died, her two surviving children fought for years over her estate and eventually stopped speaking altogether. Her life was one of tragedy, heartbreak and despair.
But that's only half the story. My grandmother completed her high school education through correspondence in 1955 and in 1972, received a degree in English from San Diego State University. She designed and taught a course on conservatorship at the local junior college until just before she died in 1994. For several years, she was the Sunday school superintendent of her church and also served as president of volunteer organizations around the San Diego area. She was interested in social justice and rarely turned down a worthwhile cause. She kept her 4'10 frame in tip-top shape by exercising everyday in her garage, though she did enjoy a bowl of Heavenly Hash ice cream every night before bed. She loved her grandchildren so much that when her son proved financially and emotionally irresponsible, she provided all three of them with a college education. She possessed intelligence, tenacity and unimaginable strength.
That's the whole story, or at least for now, the one that I know to tell. And it's the story that I claim for my daughter. Someday, when I tell Amelia about her spunky great-grandmother, I will share the tragedy, only as it serves to illuminate the beauty of who she became. That legacy belongs to me, and now it belongs to Amelia. What she chooses to do with it is up to her.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Cure for the Winter Blues
O.K., so maybe the term "winter blues" means something a little different in San Diego than it does in, say, North Dakota, but everyone everywhere gets the blahs once in a while. Especially during this time of year in California when it is too warm to wear a sweater, but not warm enough for a tank top. Well, I think I may have found a remedy. On Saturday, I had my first legitimate haircut in over two years. And by "legitimate," I mean that it cost more than ten dollars and I wasn't left with hair that was longer on one side than the other. Yep, I splurged and got the real deal...It was a scalp-scrubbin', deep-conditioning, leave -with- a- free- bottle- of- hair-straightener good time. My hairdresser Kevin is a magician, I'm convinced. I sat down in his chair a frumpy, over-extended hausfrau and left the place feeling like a Pantene model, swinging my new coif from side to side and casting flirty glances at myself in full length mirrors. For anyone out there in need of an end of winter pick-me-up, I highly recommend a good haircut. It's amazing what a little snip-snip will do for the spirit.
Monday, January 30, 2006
They Love You, They Hate You, They Steal Your Laptop...
Today was just one of those days. I even said that to Dave this morning when Amelia, who is cutting her 1-year molars, woke up screaming at 4am. I said, "Today's going to be one of those days." I didn't know how right I was.
I could make a laundry list of all the little things that went wrong from the moment I woke up, but I have now forgotten what they are. It doesn't even matter anymore. I don't think those little things ever mattered, really. They were minor inconveniences; annoyances that continually distract me from the meat and potatoes of daily life. And they pale in comparison to what happened later.
3rd period, a group of boistrous and lively 9th graders, is a class I look forward to. I would venture to say that they are my favorite class. Besides the typical issues of excessive talking, trying to listen to their i-pod on the sly and general homework apathy, they are a fun group of kids who ask great questions and make me look good when I have principal observations. But today as they were filing out of the classroom, one of them lifted my school-issued laptop from off my desk and walked away with it.
I didn't see it; I was collecting classwork outside the door, waving good-bye and reminding them to finish A Samurai's Tale before Friday. Within minutes of returning inside, I realized it wasn't there. I searched high and low; in cupboards and under stacks of papers; I even looked in the ten-gallon trash can right outside my classroom. It was gone. On the way down to the office to report my loss, I thought of the three hours of grading that I had done on Sunday afternoon and the final exam on All Quiet on the Western Front that I had prepared for Friday. I could feel a lump pushing its way up my throat when I thought of the semester's worth of documents that I had not yet copied to my flash drive. At that moment, who took it and why didn't cross my mind. I just wanted it back.
By the end of the day, it was in my hands again. School security had printed off my class roster and interrogated one kid at a time until finally, they found my laptop in Frankie's backpack. Walking up to the office after school to find out what had happened, I began to feel sick to my stomach. My hands started to shake. Now that my laptop had been recovered, I began to think about what this meant for Frankie. I knew he had been arrested. According to the Sheriff, he will most likely be charged be with grand theft. He will definitely be expelled. He might even spend some time in Juvenile Hall. Frankie just turned fifteen.
Tomorrow I am going to talk to my 3rd period class about what things cost. My laptop cost $500; Frankie's decision cost him considerably more. The truth is, he probably didn't realize the full consequences of his actions, or maybe he did and he just didn't care. Either way, it rips my heart out. Most likely, I will never see Frankie again. For the rest of the semester, his empty desk will serve as a reminder that most of the time, we create our own obstacles; our poor choices lead to our own challenges and all of these things boil down to the overused, but indisputable truth that what we make of life is up to us.
I could make a laundry list of all the little things that went wrong from the moment I woke up, but I have now forgotten what they are. It doesn't even matter anymore. I don't think those little things ever mattered, really. They were minor inconveniences; annoyances that continually distract me from the meat and potatoes of daily life. And they pale in comparison to what happened later.
3rd period, a group of boistrous and lively 9th graders, is a class I look forward to. I would venture to say that they are my favorite class. Besides the typical issues of excessive talking, trying to listen to their i-pod on the sly and general homework apathy, they are a fun group of kids who ask great questions and make me look good when I have principal observations. But today as they were filing out of the classroom, one of them lifted my school-issued laptop from off my desk and walked away with it.
I didn't see it; I was collecting classwork outside the door, waving good-bye and reminding them to finish A Samurai's Tale before Friday. Within minutes of returning inside, I realized it wasn't there. I searched high and low; in cupboards and under stacks of papers; I even looked in the ten-gallon trash can right outside my classroom. It was gone. On the way down to the office to report my loss, I thought of the three hours of grading that I had done on Sunday afternoon and the final exam on All Quiet on the Western Front that I had prepared for Friday. I could feel a lump pushing its way up my throat when I thought of the semester's worth of documents that I had not yet copied to my flash drive. At that moment, who took it and why didn't cross my mind. I just wanted it back.
By the end of the day, it was in my hands again. School security had printed off my class roster and interrogated one kid at a time until finally, they found my laptop in Frankie's backpack. Walking up to the office after school to find out what had happened, I began to feel sick to my stomach. My hands started to shake. Now that my laptop had been recovered, I began to think about what this meant for Frankie. I knew he had been arrested. According to the Sheriff, he will most likely be charged be with grand theft. He will definitely be expelled. He might even spend some time in Juvenile Hall. Frankie just turned fifteen.
Tomorrow I am going to talk to my 3rd period class about what things cost. My laptop cost $500; Frankie's decision cost him considerably more. The truth is, he probably didn't realize the full consequences of his actions, or maybe he did and he just didn't care. Either way, it rips my heart out. Most likely, I will never see Frankie again. For the rest of the semester, his empty desk will serve as a reminder that most of the time, we create our own obstacles; our poor choices lead to our own challenges and all of these things boil down to the overused, but indisputable truth that what we make of life is up to us.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Show Me Your Belly!
This morning Dave and I took Amelia to her baby gym class. Before I had a child of my own, I probably would have thought that the idea of taking a 13 month old to a gymnastics class was a bit silly. And I have to concede that maybe it is. Though there are obvious benefits such as gross motor skill development and socialization, I think a part of me is in this thing for selfish reasons. There aren't many things in this life that have brought me as much joy as watching half a dozen toddlers lifting up their shirts (the instructor incorporates the teaching of body parts into the lesson), all clamoring for the reward of having bubbles blown on their tummies. Amelia doesn't quite get the whole Pavlov-cause-and-effect-thing yet, but she was in bubble heaven nevertheless...and so was I.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Lunchtime Epiphanies
A few days before the semester ended last year, I was talking with one of my students about my impending departure from Orange County High School of the Arts to a job closer to home. I expressed a bit of my trepidation at leaving the kooky familiarity that defined my present position for a job at a large, public high school. Austin, in many ways, was the quintessential OCHSA student. He was intelligent, creative, eager to learn, cynical of the status quo, though equally empathetic and compassionate. And, most importantly, he laughed at my lame jokes. What would teaching be like without kids like Austin? Upon hearing my concern, Austin, wise beyond his fifteen years, shrugged and said, "Ah, Mrs. Burgess, don't worry about it. Kids are just kids wherever you are."
The new school year began at the large, public high school and as the first class began to file in, I thought of Austin's pearl of wisdom that I had carried with me all summer long. But as the kid with the mohawk strolled past, dropping the f-bomb and ignoring me entirely, it fell to the floor and began to roll under my desk. These were not the kids I had left behind. I spent most of the first semester either bemoaning my current predicament or waiting for "Austin" to show up. He never did.
Enter Tom. Tom's distinction in my own personal teaching hall of fame was that he was the first student I had ever had who managed to slug through the entire first semester without turning in a single homework assignment. Seriously, not one. Though he was bright, he didn't seem to care if he passed or failed. Everyday I would ask, "Tom, do you have your homework?" and everyday he would answer, "Nah, Mrs. Burgess, you know I don't do homework. Later on, I learned that Tom was in the foster care system, had a brother in prison for manslaughter and was, himself, on probation for burglary. I thought of Austin, who happened to be in the same grade as Tom, and the chasm between the two seemed so vast, I began to despair. How could I possibly reach this kid and others like him? I wasn't sure.
Winter break came and went and another semester descended with a few new faces and a fading memory of what had been. One day last week, Tom stopped by my classroom during lunch. The unexpectedness of his visit caught me off guard and I immediately abandoned my Ham n' Cheese Hot Pocket to see what was up. "Mrs. Burgess, I didn't do my homework," he announced with a smirk on his face. The day before I had assigned his class a 100 point project on World War I propaganda. In my mind, I thought, "News at Eleven: Tom did not do his homework... I gave up my Hot Pocket for this?" But Tom continued to stand there, now with an enormous grin on his face, so I kept my sarcasm in check. Finally, opening his backpack, he gloated, "Psych! I did it, Mrs. Burgess! Oh, snap, I got you good!" I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I think I probably jumped up and down. Embarassed by my outburst, Tom attempted to maintain his too-cool-for-school facade and replied, "It's not like I won the Nobel Peace award or nothing." No, Tom, not yet. But it is a small step in the right direction.
It was a small step for me, too. The lesson learned? Austin, the perfect student, was right when he said that" kids are just kids" in any school, in any city, in any state, or even in any country. They love you, they hate you, they push your buttons and make you want to crawl under the desk into the fetal position at the end of the day. But in the end, kids everywhere need approval and acceptance; they need to know that someone believes in them. They need to know that what they do or don't do matters to someone. Hopefully, one of those someones can be me. I still don't have a classroom full of Austins, but maybe that's not what I want anymore. Maybe I want a classroom full of Toms. Because the payoff, when there is one, if there is one, is exponentially greater.
The new school year began at the large, public high school and as the first class began to file in, I thought of Austin's pearl of wisdom that I had carried with me all summer long. But as the kid with the mohawk strolled past, dropping the f-bomb and ignoring me entirely, it fell to the floor and began to roll under my desk. These were not the kids I had left behind. I spent most of the first semester either bemoaning my current predicament or waiting for "Austin" to show up. He never did.
Enter Tom. Tom's distinction in my own personal teaching hall of fame was that he was the first student I had ever had who managed to slug through the entire first semester without turning in a single homework assignment. Seriously, not one. Though he was bright, he didn't seem to care if he passed or failed. Everyday I would ask, "Tom, do you have your homework?" and everyday he would answer, "Nah, Mrs. Burgess, you know I don't do homework. Later on, I learned that Tom was in the foster care system, had a brother in prison for manslaughter and was, himself, on probation for burglary. I thought of Austin, who happened to be in the same grade as Tom, and the chasm between the two seemed so vast, I began to despair. How could I possibly reach this kid and others like him? I wasn't sure.
Winter break came and went and another semester descended with a few new faces and a fading memory of what had been. One day last week, Tom stopped by my classroom during lunch. The unexpectedness of his visit caught me off guard and I immediately abandoned my Ham n' Cheese Hot Pocket to see what was up. "Mrs. Burgess, I didn't do my homework," he announced with a smirk on his face. The day before I had assigned his class a 100 point project on World War I propaganda. In my mind, I thought, "News at Eleven: Tom did not do his homework... I gave up my Hot Pocket for this?" But Tom continued to stand there, now with an enormous grin on his face, so I kept my sarcasm in check. Finally, opening his backpack, he gloated, "Psych! I did it, Mrs. Burgess! Oh, snap, I got you good!" I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I think I probably jumped up and down. Embarassed by my outburst, Tom attempted to maintain his too-cool-for-school facade and replied, "It's not like I won the Nobel Peace award or nothing." No, Tom, not yet. But it is a small step in the right direction.
It was a small step for me, too. The lesson learned? Austin, the perfect student, was right when he said that" kids are just kids" in any school, in any city, in any state, or even in any country. They love you, they hate you, they push your buttons and make you want to crawl under the desk into the fetal position at the end of the day. But in the end, kids everywhere need approval and acceptance; they need to know that someone believes in them. They need to know that what they do or don't do matters to someone. Hopefully, one of those someones can be me. I still don't have a classroom full of Austins, but maybe that's not what I want anymore. Maybe I want a classroom full of Toms. Because the payoff, when there is one, if there is one, is exponentially greater.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Cheerio Mayhem
If you've ever had a one year old in your house then you know what I'm talking about. Two months ago, when Dave and I discovered their invaluable utility, I could have been a Cheerio spokeswoman. Suddenly, we could take her out to dinner and for an hour she would be utterly transfixed by the oat-flavored spheres. Cheerios brought tranquility to meal time. But the jig is up. She is on to us. Cheerios no longer appease her appetite or her curiosity. When Amelia sees me coming with the yellow box in my hand, she shakes her head from side to side as if to say, "you don't get it, do you? I'm over those things." Still, I get desperate. So, occasionally, I'll toss a few on her tray, just until I can get dinner ready. From across the room, I can see the look in her eye, the look that says, "oh yeah? I'll show you," as she daintily picks up one Cheerio at a time and drops them onto the floor. Tonight, as I write, Amelia is sleeping soundly in the next room and the dinner dishes are done; all is right with the world. Except for the sea of forsaken Cheerios that lay in waste on my kitchen floor.
Backgammon and Frozen Pizza
I am a teacher and a mom and a wife. My life is not particularly interesting; my students would likely classify it as "boring," if only they knew that a saucy Saturday night in my house often involves a frozen pizza, a few games of backgammon and 48 Hours Mystery. Nevertheless, at present, my life is fuller than I can handle. I love my vocation ( but not necessarily my job) and adore my family, but have forgotten who I am apart from those two things. Before I met my husband, I could fill volume upon volume of journals. Then, instead of pouring out my heart to the pages, I poured my heart out to him and slowly lost the desire to write altogether. I want to find that again. If anyone reads this or not is immaterial to me; I just think I needed a potential audience in order to reclaim my voice.
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